When Tomorrow Comes
by Nebulaskiies
Summary: Christophe would wait until the end of the world for Gregory. If only the stubborn blond would wake up. (Gregstophe)


**AN: **My first Gregstophe and it's a sad one. These two need way more love, so I'm throwing my hat in the ring. I wasn't sure how to incorporate Christophe's accent, so I settled on writing him like they did in the script for the movie. I'm also working on another fic with them, so keep an eye out if you liked this one.

Shoutout to my beta Rammbook for helping me with this!

* * *

Christophe wasn't used to the silence. Gregory was never this quiet, the blond was always harping on animatedly about his causes and opinions on said causes, whether it be politics or other things Christophe couldn't care less about. There were times when he wished he would shut up and give him a moment's peace, but now he was regretting such thoughts.

In fact, all he wanted now was for Gregory to nag and pester him. He would give just about anything to hear the Englishman say in that arrogant pompous undertone of his: "You know, Christophe, you really should pay more attention to what I'm saying. It's important." Then, he would launch into a long-winded lecture about how in order to be efficient as mercenaries it was their job to be up to speed with current events going on all over the world.

Always prepared, always resourceful.

_A lot of good that did him_, Christophe thought bitterly.

He released a heavy exhausted sigh, rubbing at his weary eyes. The overhead lights were too damn bright, he couldn't fathom how Gregory was able to sleep with them glaring down upon him. He sat back in his chair, wincing from the ache in his back. Why must hospitals make their chairs so damn unpleasant? Weren't they supposed to make sure the patients' visitors were comfortable? This was the opposite of comfort. Sterile and clean, the scent of ammonia burned his nostrils and everything was too fucking white. Couldn't they have chosen a different palette? Beige? Mint green? Anything but white. It's like they _wanted_ you to be uncomfortable, despite the discomfort being inside a hospital already provided.

His fingers curled around his knees, digging into his cargo pants. He itched to hold a cigarette, to feel the burn of tobacco in his lungs; the smoke clouding his brain and numbing his senses. No, a simple cancer stick wouldn't suffice, not with the current stress he was under. Make that a pack or two—maybe a bottle on the side to curb his nerves.

He was quick to berate himself for having such a thought and being so weak. He had made an unspoken vow not to smoke. Gregory had always hated the smell and would complain about how it clung to everything. Prissy bitch. His lips curled into a nostalgic smile at the memories where the Englishman would belittle him for the habit, citing all of the negative effects and how it would surely be the death of him. Christophe had just scoffed derisively and blown a cloud into his face, serving only to infuriate him further as he then proceeded to rant about the dangers of secondhand smoke.

Christophe decided then and there that if Gregory pulled through he would give up smoking for good; switch to those stupid e cigarettes that tasted like cherries that all the teenagers seemed to be into like every other passing trend. Yes, he would willingly go against his own morals if it meant his blond returned to him. Anything for Gregory.

Instead, to sate the urge, he busied himself by petting the other man's hair. Calloused fingers gently gliding over the soft golden curls, untangling them when they knotted around his fingers. It was just as much of a comfort to him as it was to the Brit. Gregory was still silent and made no move to intercede. In fact, he didn't stir at all. Christophe gazed at his face as he slept; he looked peaceful, despite the ugly abrasions and contusions maring his perfect skin. He pressed a kiss to his forehead, whispering into the shell of his ear.

"Je t'aime, mon ange. Please wake up."

He sighed, running a hand through his own hair, disheveled and wild in contrast to Gregory's neat and meticulously tamed curls. He'd taken the liberty of styling his beloved's hair for him, brushing it daily since he could not do it himself. Heaven knows Gregory couldn't stand looking like a mess. He deemed it uncouth of a gentleman such as himself. He would gawk in mortified horror if he could see himself now; swathed in bandages with tubes and wires running through and from him to the various machines in the room. Not really a pleasant sight for the esteemed leader of La Resistance.

Christophe's hand found Gregory's again, intertwining their fingers. He was careful not to disturb the bandages as he rubbed his thumb in a calming circular pattern over the skin. It felt so strange to hold his hand and not be met with the leathery material his signature gloves were made out of. He raised it to his lips and kissed the bruised knuckles. The skin was soft and smooth to the touch, perfect just like the rest of his fiancé.

Fiancé.

His mind slipped back to the night Gregory proposed. It wasn't the most ideal time, thinking about it made his heart ache rather than rejoice. He could remember everything so vividly with amazing clarity despite the shock he was in at the time.

_His shirt was soiled with blood—more so from the body he held than his own. Gregory's prone form cradled to his chest. He was shivering; partly from the cold, partly from the warm substance soaking through his dress shirt. Conviction prominent in the cerulean eyes clouded with pain, barely clinging to consciousness as well as the lapels of Christophe's jacket. Christophe was panicking and swearing up a storm, but Gregory was strangely calm considering his predicament._

_"Tophe..." he wheezed, his breaths shallow and laboured; each one a struggle through trembling lips. "If we...make it out of here...I want you to marry me..."_

_His robust voice wavered, taking on an almost desperate plea as he looked up into Christophe's face, his eyelids growing heavier. Christophe could only see a glimpse of blue beneath the thick lashes._

"_Will you...marry me...?"_

_He used the remainder of his declining energy on that question. Dramatic bastard. It was a rather bold and daring move, fitting for someone as spontaneous as the blond. Christophe was sure the blood loss had just made him delirious, albeit he couldn't find it in himself to turn him down, not when he was rapidly losing colour and looked so fragile. He could only kiss his forehead and mutter his response._

_"Oui."_

_Gregory smiled faintly, satisfied with his answer before he succumbed to the pain and exhaustion, going limp in his arms._

He refused to leave his side since, cussing out the paramedics as they pried him out of his arms, fighting tooth and nail for a seat beside him in the ambulance. He simply sat and waited diligently, clinging to Gregory's hand and reassuring the blond that he wasn't going anywhere.

The uncomfortable backbreaking chairs became his bed, he didn't shower (not that he had much prior to the incident) the only reason he was even eating was because the nurses had taken pity on him and brought him his meals during their rounds. It was damaging to his pride, he wasn't a damn charity case. He hated the look of sympathy in their eyes, wanting nothing more than to take Gregory home away from their prying eyes and prodding hands. He wasn't an expert on medical care by any means, albeit he and Gregory had patched each other up many times. He could take care of him far better than any white coated personnel could. Gregory was in rough shape however, he couldn't take the chance. And, so, he begrudgingly stayed.

If anyone tried to get him to leave they would be met with a perpetually pissed off Frenchman and possibly a shovel to the face. By now the staff knew to leave him be, apprehensively going about their duties as cold eyes challenged them, following their every move when they came in to check Gregory's vitals or change his bandages.

Simply put, he was a wreck. Both emotionally and physically. How dare Gregory do this to him. Didn't hat idiot know how much he meant to him? He was his rock, his anchor, the only person who could keep him grounded when he was spiralling out of control. The only person he dared let close enough to see through the walls he had built around himself. The only person who, with one well placed kick, sent them crashing down like a house of cards. He couldn't imagine living without him, it was impossible. If Gregory died then he would follow him, just as the original star crossed lovers did. He would always follow him, even into death.

Damn that cocksucking bastard for trying to take the only good thing in his life from him. He'd already taken everything else, wasn't that enough? Why Gregory too? Was this a harsh reminder that he was taking him for granted? Was this God's way of saying that his happiness was short lived? That it wouldn't last forever because nothing truly did? Fuck if he knew. He didn't understand anything about the man upstairs, nor did he understand Gregory's faith in him. The small metallic cross resting against the revolutionary's neck served only to mock Christophe as once again, God had pulled the rug out from underneath, sending him crashing back down. Only the net of his insecurities and self loathing caught him instead of Gregory's strong arms and warm embrace.

His hands tightened into fists, fingernails cutting crescent moons into his skin. Stupid blond, damn him for going off and getting himself hurt. Christophe knew his recklessness would be the death of them both some day. As he sat and pleaded for the Brit to come back to him, he couldn't silence the nagging thought that it should've been himself instead. Gregory was an idealist, an activist, he was going to make history one day. What was he? A cynical nihilist who only believed in the spitfire sun he orbited that was his fiancé. _He_ hadn't contributed anything to the world, _he_ was expendable. Let Satan take him instead, because surely God wouldn't. Not that he would want to live in his so called paradise. Fuck him.

"Goddamnit, bête. Wake up. I get you need your beauty sleep, but this iz ridiculous. Besides, you're pretty enough, you don't need ze extra hours," he mumbled as an afterthought.

Silence.

He didn't expect an answer. He'd grown accustomed to holding one sided conversations in this room. The monotonous blip of the heart monitor reminded him that he wasn't just shouting at empty space. He still had an audience. Gregory was still there. That was all the motivation he needed to keep going. He would wait like the loyal partner he was. He would wait until the end of the earth. For him.

Christophe gently stroked the Englishman's cheek, fingers tracing jagged edges of small gashes bestowed upon pale skin. He started to hum, it was a familiar melody; one he had heard Gregory sing on many occasions when he rallied the troops.

"You see ze distant flames, zey bellow in ze night. You fight in all our names for what you know iz right, and when you all get shot and cannot carry on, though you die, La Resistance lives on..."

He affectionately smoothed back the blond's hair so it was no longer in his face, continuing the anthem with the hope that the other man could hear it. His voice was surprisingly soft and gentle, a stark contrast to his usual aggressive and standoffish demeanour. Only a rare few had gotten the privilege of hearing him sing, Gregory being one of them. The Brit adored his voice and would often ask him to sing for him. Sometimes they would sing together: perfect harmony. It was a breathtaking sight. Their own little infinity where nothing else mattered but each other.

Christophe cycled through a few more of Gregory's favourite songs from musicals he knew he liked. His voice faltered slightly, yet he pushed back the tears and carried on. Gregory needed him to be strong. He would not bow to his own emotions. He wouldn't break down knowing his beloved was fighting just as hard as he was. He would not grieve him because he was still there. Gregory had been through worse before, he always came out on top. Christophe didn't doubt that he would again—not for a second.

He sat with him until the waning hours of the night, willing him to open his eyes and grace him with their beauty. To give him that cocky confident smile that both infuriated him and made his heart skip a beat. He ended up dozing off with his head on his fiancé's chest, drowning out the shrill beeping of machines with the steady drum of the heartbeat in his ears.

* * *

He was reading a passage from War and Peace—one of Gregory's favourite novels—when the blond finally began to stir. His hand twitched in the Frenchman's, giving it a small squeeze. Christophe immediately froze, abandoning the chapter in favour of watching Gregory's face with bated breath. His finely trimmed brows furrowed as he emitted a groan, cerulean eyes slowly but surely fluttering open to meet his own.

"Tophe…?"

Christophe's breath hitched in his throat at the sight of the half lidded eyes eyeing him drowsily. His heart nearly leapt from his chest upon hearing his name spoken by the velvety rich accent he never thought he would have the pleasure of hearing again. Granted, it was cracked and horribly strained, but it was him. He was alive.

Christophe's lip trembled as he choked back a sob. He could feel the cool dampness on his cheeks from the tears he knew were falling unabashedly. He didn't care however, making no move to wipe them away as he smiled at the groggy revolutionary. His first real genuine smile in days, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead and chuckling softly.

"Salut, Sleeping Beauty."


End file.
